Page 110 of Hunting Pretty

I woke up groggy, my head pounding. My limbs felt impossibly heavy, like I was trying to move through water. My mouth was dry and tasted like old pennies.

My eyelids fluttered open, but the room around me blurred into indistinct shapes, moonlight filtering through the curtains.

For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was or how I’d gotten here.

My bed. I was in my bed.

I shifted, trying to sit up, but my body protested. It was like every muscle had forgotten how to work, my movements slow, clumsy.

I reached for my bedside lamp and turned it on, wincing as even the soft glow hurt my eyes.

Panic bubbled up in my chest as flashes of the last thing I remembered swam to the surface—the attacker’s hand covering my mouth, the sickly-sweet scent of chloroform, and then…

Scáth.

His nearness had flooded my senses before everything went dark.

My breath hitched, and I ran my trembling hands over my blankets, grounding myself in the familiar texture, but something still felt off.

Did hedosomething to me when I was under?

I squeezed my eyes shut and explored my body with my hands.

I was clothed, in one of my silk nightgowns. But I didn’t have a bra or underwear on.

My wrists and forearms hurt from where the attacker gripped me. And my head felt stuffed as if with cotton wool. But I didn’t feel bruised down there.

He must have undressed me. But where were my bloody clothes that I had been wearing?

I remember the hot spray of blood on my face. I touched my cheeks, exploring with my fingers, but they were clean when I pulled them away.

I glanced over to my dresser mirror to double-check. But my face looked clean.

Damn. He must have cleaned me up, too.

I smelled my hair. Jasmine. He’d washed my hair, too.

I glanced to my bedside table where my phone lay charging.

Beside my bed was my bag and after a quick look through, it seemed he’d left everything, my schoolbooks, my notebook, my wallet.

I couldn’t say he wasn’t a thoughtful stalker.

To my surprise, therewasn’ta lily by the bedside.

I supposed he was too busy disposing of the body and our bloody clothes to bother with flowers.

I snatched my phone and typed out a message to Scáth.

Me: What did you do with the body?

Scáth: Don’t know what you’re talking about.

My blood curdled as the memory I’d uncovered just before blacking out crashed back into my mind, sharp and unrelenting.

That faceless figure, lying motionless at the feet of a seventeen-year-old Scáth.

He had killed for me before—I knew that much—but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember who.

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